The night settled heavy on the camp as the company huddled among the jagged ridges of Hollow Peaks. The fires burned low, more for warmth than light, for no one wanted to draw too much attention in these cursed mountains. The day's climb had left them exhausted, and silence weighed over the group like a blanket of stone.
Zeke sat apart again, revolver balanced on his knee, blade strapped to his belt. He had counted and recounted the last bullets a hundred times, knowing they wouldn't last if things went south. His hands kept drifting to the short sword—still awkward, but less foreign than before. Every day of training with Seraphine carved a little more comfort into the steel.
Around him, villagers whispered and shifted on their bedrolls. Some prayed in hushed tones, others chewed dried meat with nervous jaws. It wasn't the roar from earlier that kept them awake now—it was the fire. That strange, black fire that had bloomed on the summit like a beacon of doom. They all knew what it meant. The dragon was stirring.
The watch was set in pairs, villagers posted with knights to make sure no one slipped. But unease still gnawed at the edges of the company. Fear had a way of turning men brittle, and brittle men could break in dangerous ways.
Zeke felt the burn in his chest again. The scar glowed faintly beneath his shirt, pulsing with a rhythm that didn't belong to him. He rubbed at it, muttering, "Damn brand's got a mind of its own."
"Can't sleep either?"
He glanced up to find Seraphine approaching, helmet tucked under her arm. Her face looked carved from stone, but in the flicker of firelight, fatigue softened her edges.
"Not when that thing's out there," Zeke said. He gestured toward the peaks, where shadows seemed to twist unnaturally in the moonlight. "Feels like it's breathing down my neck already."
Her eyes lingered on him, sharp and knowing. "You felt it again, didn't you? The mark."
Zeke scowled. "I didn't ask for it. Ain't like I got a say in what some damn cult shaman burned into me."
"No," she agreed, settling beside him, her armor clinking. "But it may be the very reason you're here at all."
Before Zeke could argue, a rustle carried through the rocks. Both turned, hands on weapons, but it was only one of the younger volunteers approaching the fire, carrying a bundle of sticks for fuel.
"Just me," the boy said quickly. His face was pale, his voice too eager.
Zeke narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Something in the kid's twitchy movements rubbed him wrong. He couldn't put a finger on it, but his instincts from years on the frontier pricked like a cactus spine.
The boy tossed the wood on the flames and hurried off again. Zeke watched him vanish into the shadows, unease stirring in his gut.
Later, when the camp finally drifted toward restless sleep, Zeke found himself on watch with two of the knights. The wind howled through the peaks, carrying the stench of ash and rot. He kept scanning the ridgelines, every shadow threatening to move.
That was when he saw it.
A glint of light—too steady to be natural, too sharp to be accident—flared against the cliff. It blinked once, twice, like a signal.
"Hell," Zeke whispered, hand dropping to his revolver.
The glint vanished, swallowed by the dark.
Then came the sound.
A low, guttural horn, echoing through the mountains.
The knights stiffened. "To arms!" one shouted, voice cracking through the night.
The camp erupted in chaos. Villagers scrambled, grabbing spears and shields. Horses screamed. And from the darkness, the horde poured in—goblins by the dozens, their eyes glowing sickly green, their snarls filling the air. Behind them came robed figures with twisted masks, cultists chanting in a language that curdled the blood.
"Shit!" Zeke barked, drawing his revolver and firing into the oncoming tide. The gunshot thundered, echoing across the peaks. A goblin tumbled, another shrieked. But the swarm didn't slow.
Steel clashed as Seraphine leapt into the fray, her blade carving arcs of silver in the firelight. She barked orders with the force of command, rallying terrified villagers into some semblance of a line.
Zeke fired again, and again, until the hammer clicked empty. He cursed, holstering the Colt and drawing his short sword.
The fight turned into a blur. Goblins lunged, teeth gnashing, and Zeke met them with steel and grit. Every slash was clumsy, but desperation sharpened his reflexes. He ducked under a wild swing, drove the blade up into a goblin's throat, then kicked the body free before spinning to meet the next.
Blood slicked his hands, sweat stung his eyes. Somewhere in the madness, he realized he wasn't just surviving—he was fighting. Every lesson Seraphine drilled into him, every hour of sweat and bruises, it all poured out now in raw instinct. He cut, he punched, he survived.
The villagers saw it too. Some shouted encouragement, others found their courage in his defiance.
But the cultists pressed harder, driving their monsters like hounds. One figure broke through the melee—a masked man wielding a cruel dagger, his eyes locked on Seraphine.
Zeke saw it happen in a flash. She had just cut down two goblins when the cultist lunged from behind, blade aimed at the exposed seam of her armor. She didn't see him.
"Seraphine!"
Zeke surged forward, shoving past goblins, sword flashing. He slammed into the cultist just as the dagger descended. Steel screeched across Seraphine's armor, missing the gap by inches.
The cultist snarled, twisting to drive the blade at Zeke instead. Zeke caught his wrist, muscles straining, eyes burning with fury. With his free hand, he drove his short sword up beneath the cultist's ribs. The man gasped, choking on blood, before collapsing to the dirt.
Seraphine spun, eyes wide with shock. For the first time since he'd met her, the mask of cold composure cracked.
Zeke stood over the corpse, chest heaving, blood smeared across his face. His hand trembled, but his grip on the sword was unyielding.
"You're alive because of me," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Guess that makes us even."
Seraphine's lips parted, as if to speak, but the words never came. Her gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before snapping back to the chaos around them.
The battle still raged, goblins screaming, cultists chanting, firelight flickering across the carnage. But for that one heartbeat, amidst the slaughter, Zeke Graves had proved himself—not just a stranger, not just a cowboy out of place.
He was a fighter.
And he had saved her life.